


7 Rings

by discountghost



Category: ATEEZ (Band), K-pop
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bottom! San, M/M, Mafia Ateez, Mental Health Issues, Oral Fixation, Smut, So much angst, Threesome - M/M/M, Threesomes, bodyguard!wooyoung, cawllection, idk what to call yeosang, prostitute!san
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-11 08:01:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18426393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discountghost/pseuds/discountghost
Summary: Baby gets what Baby wants.Or, San's too pretty to be where he is and Yeosang has ideas on how to fix that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi this was again posted impulsively send help

His face hurt.

 

It wasn’t a new thought. The sting of his cheekbone and the dull ache of his eye were almost always a constant for San. Those seemed to be the places people liked to hit most. Illuminated only by the fading embers at the end of someone else’s cigarette, he contemplated everything but why he was here. There were technically three hours left to this shift - but if he wanted to breach that next fifty benchmark he’d have to be out longer. He glanced up at the crunch of gravel, blinking clump mascara that was getting dangerously close away. His lips were red and swollen, and if he was being honest he wasn’t sure he could feel them anymore.

 

It’s another person passing him by. Not that he blames them. San probably doesn’t look as great as he started the night out, slumped against a wall with a fresh garden of bruises. The kind that were still not fully in bloom and would feel every bit like shit once they were. He considered asking the man beside him to spare a cigarette, but he decided against it. Then he’d really look the part of the role he didn’t want to play.

 

More boots on gravel and the voices drifting over him. He sunk back further into the darkness. These were the clients he wanted to avoid. He could smell the alcohol coming off them in waves, enough to make his empty stomach upset. He wished they’d pass him by, but they don’t. They never really do. Because on a street like this, he was something of an oddity. A new freak in a sideshow that people had to stop to gawk at. Not in admiration, but a twisted sort of fascination.

 

The man that grabs him first is gentler than he expected. He didn’t look at him fully, but his hair was long and probably slicked back with gel. What he can see of his jaw is sporting the beginning of a beard and the faint silver of a scar. Now he really doesn’t want them as customers. But it’s money and that’s what he needs. So he lets them drag him away without a fight.

 

It’s a matter of convenience and luck that he’d managed to even score a place on the street close to the grimy apartment building he’s sure is about to be condemned. It’s more a crack den than a place to take a cheap hooker, but the men don’t care and neither does he. Not when they had intentions to treat him more like a punching bag than a paid lay. Money in it for him, either way.

 

The mechanics of the matters are tired and on a cycle that he’s very used to. It’s easy to zone out the minute soft, hot flesh leaves a sour taste in his mouth. The way the insistence of teaching him how a real man does it no longer burns as much as a hand forces him further forward. San’s learned to breathe through his nose and not think too much about the smell of piss from the corner of the room. His cheeks have hollowed out and the groans echo through the room. He has no warning when hot liquid fills his mouth and he’s forced forward again as the man’s hips buck. Little black dots appeared in his vision for a moment, and as he pulls off the man slaps a hand over his mouth.  _ Swallow _ . A trail of spit connects San still to the man’s cock, deflated and even less impressive. He complied because maybe he’ll get extra and he doubted the man would let him do otherwise.

 

The others weren’t quite lined up. It was more a cluster of them - two, three, maybe - awaiting their turn. Or, they were converging to think of how best to mess with him. They could overpower him. They could do whatever it was they wanted and leave. But one of them said something about principle and he wanted to laugh. Or cry. 

 

Whatever conclusion they came to, they were eager to enact it. To see it come to a head. One pair of arms is encircling him, lifting him to his feet and another is working at his pants. There’s no protest and they don’t like that. The man he just finished off his trying to show him how to hold his hands to fight. A weak imitation leaves him dissatisfied and he gives up on the task, a grimace on his face. His eyes are beady, dark in the flickering light. Clammy hands found their way under his shirt. Explored the bruises riddled there and dig into them with eager fingers. San winced. No more than that, but it was enough to propel the man on. They went down, down, lower into the ripped jeans that are ripped more out of wear than fashion. But he doesn’t touch him. Not really. The man dances around the obvious before pulling his hands out and shoving him forward. 

 

The mattress squeals under his weight, despite how little it is. It groaned as the men joined him and he wants to gag when a hand forces his head down into what smells like old cum, piss, and sweat. There’s that ever familiar sound of zippers dropping. His jeans have been forced down off, shoes tossed across them room just before them and all he feels for a moment is cold air before there’s a hot dick resting on the curve of his ass. A moment of debate ensued, claims of who would go first starting up. But it’s stopped by a knock on the door and that doesn’t feel right. 

 

No one knocks on this street. 

 

The group freezes collectively and the door swings open. There’s little time to react as a man steps through the door, gun raised. There’s a spray of blood and one body drops. San is less concerned about the fact that he’s ass up in the middle of this when the bullets start, because he isn’t for long as one man grabs him to use as a shield. For a moment he considers how this might be how he dies and he can feel his heart wanting to nearly rip through his chest in retaliation.  He shuts his eyes, and is acutely aware of the warm sprays of blood that hits different parts of him. 

 

The grip holding him in place is still there, and he peeks with one eye to see if it has ended. They’re at a stalemate. The man holding him has his gun raised, and pants at his knees. The man at the door seemed unamused, gun trained ahead. Maybe it was a second, or maybe it was less than that, but it felt longer. San opened his other eye slowly, deciding that if he’s going to die he might as well see who killed him so he can haunt them for the rest of their lives. The man behind him made to shove him forward - again - only for the man at the door to pull the trigger faster. He stumbled forward on the bed, numb as the last body dropped and he could take in the very clean massacre that had just taken place. 

 

The trickle of warmth ran down his leg. He’d pissed himself. But who wouldn’t in this situation? The man at the door took his sweet time lowering his gun. His face was mostly obscured by a cap and a face mask. He couldn’t see his eyes but San figured there was disgust there. 

 

“P-please don’t - I promise I won’t tell anyone - don’t kill me.” Even if he did tell, who would believe him? The cops would sooner lock  _ him _ up in suspect drug charges. He had the eyebags for it. 

 

Gun holstered...wherever, the man sighed as much as he could through his face mask. Did that mean he was safe? “Look, get your pants on and come with me.” Not safe. 

 

“Someone wants to see you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i rewrote this like 3 times lol

He doesn’t know why, but he thought of her. Of her sweeping hair - redder than his own - and sad eyes looking over at him in the haze of smoke. The way she spoke that equally sad warning daily like it was more a prayer than a promise, always on the edge of a finished cigarette. Burned out like her.  _ Don’t be like me, chickadee _ . He’d promised not to, but the warmth of the man’s hand on his neck has him thinking he shouldn’t have lied then. That he shouldn’t have made that promise to her if he didn’t know he’d end up here.

Here, of course, being the back of a stately car between a killer and a man who must have surely ordered the kill. The dark haired man sitting across from him was much too calm, an owlish gaze latched onto San that left him exposed. If he could have, he would’ve curled in on himself to hide the bruises and grime that doesn’t match the tan interior of the car. The man beside removed his mask and hat, and he finds it unfair that he could be as attractive as he is. But it only really drives home a point in the back of his mind that all the good-looking people are capable of doing the worst things. Killing four people included. But the other doesn’t seem fazed by this.

The two men sat in silence as the crunch of gravel sounded, signaling that they were on the move. They sway slightly with the movement, and the one with the gun cleared his throat. A signal of a different kind. Then, the other spoke. 

“Are you alright?” Black, he noted, was the color of the man’s hair.  And that he was supposed to be answering. He nodded, trying to find another detail to memorize in the event he made it out of this. “That’s good.”

Before he could understand it, the same man is reaching forward. The first instinct is to shrink away, but he didn’t get the chance. The other man - this one with silver hair - has a firm grip on him. The warmth burned down his spine, mouth going dry. The black haired man has something to his face, and he noted belatedly that it’s a handkerchief. It was as red as the blood he wiped off of his face, a frown there. No - it was more of a pout. Lips pushed out, almost as if he was an annoyance.

“If only we’d gotten there sooner.” It’s murmured as the man draws back, and is almost enough of a distraction for San to miss the way the silver-haired man’s grip loosened. His fingers were splayed out to cover the entirety of the back of his neck and he’s not sure if it’s meant to be a soothing or threatening gesture so he goes with the latter.

“This must all be...frightening to you.” It hits him that this man doesn’t quite get what frightening is, not anymore maybe. He’s used to this enough that he has to guess. The hair on the back of his neck raises. Or maybe the ring of red around his eye gives off some sort of indication that this is just another evening. “But we’re not going to hurt you. My name is Kang Yeosang, and I want you to work for me.”

The words took a moment to process - he’s still stuck on the  _ must be frightening  _ bit of this all. He doesn’t know what this work entails, but he’s certain he won’t live up to expectation. He’s a cheap hooker that turns tricks on a corner for a man that houses him. The most he can do is keep quiet about the men they’d killed.

He swallowed. The silver-haired man retracts his hand, leaning away. Maybe he figured it would give him some comfort to not be touched. It doesn’t. He has one more hand free to reach for his gun. The man sighs, as if he picked up on how the action was taken. “We’re not going to kill you.” It should be relief washing over him, but he can’t feel it. It’s only one possibility in a dark nebula of possibilities. Men like this have means of making you disappear without killing you - and a penchant for lying.

“Wooyoung is right -  _ I _ have no intention of having you killed. Those men…” Yeosang paused, testing the words in his head, no doubt. “Those men most likely would have. Intel on their affiliations is part of what lead us to you. You’re...something of an outsourced form of entertainment.” He can’t shake the familiarity of these names, like he’s heard them before in passing. 

“I’m their punching bag, is what you mean.” Neither of the other men expected him to say it. Not that clearly, perhaps. But, he’d found little use for lying about his situation to anyone but himself and maybe his mother when she decides to check on him. 

“That’s not entirely correct.” Wooyoung has taken over, not quite looking at Yeosang for approval to do so, but it’s an exchanged look in general directions. “Your boss has a debt, and he’s using you to pay for it. Free fucks for however long they want, when they want, so long as they don’t come to collect. And it’s working. Notice how rough your customers are, and how the others stay away?”  _ Because they know better _ . He doesn’t have to say the words.

San hadn’t ever envisioned he’d be caught in some sort of gang war, but he supposed he also hadn’t envisioned himself sucking dick for a living. He thinks of her again, and her grand schemes for making it out. Thought of the way she looked older than she was, worked hard enough until she aged faster than she should have.  _ Don’t be like me _ . He doesn’t have much of a choice now.

The car comes to a halt, and he realizes more time had passed than expected. Wooyoung exits first, holding the door open to a confused San. It’s when he gestures for him to get out that he gets it. And when he looks up at the large manor in front of him - trimmed grass, manicured bushes, and immaculate lights displaying the grandeur of the house itself - he feels dirtier than before in his worn jeans and plain shirt. The remaining fur on his jacket seems a little more matted than before and he’s ready to bolt. A hand on his elbow stopped him, Wooyoung guiding him to the side as Yeosang stepped out.

The softness of his expression remains, a smile on his lips as he turns to the other. This close, he realized that they were eye to eye. But he felt, in the moment, that the other was much bigger than him. “Let’s go.”

  
  


The interior is as nice as the exterior. It’s extravagant, but not so much that it’s gaudy. But it’s got traditional elements with a touch of modern style to it. To have the money for this is a scary thought, and not so much the fantasy he might have had before. Yeosang directs Wooyoung to show him to his room before disappearing, an apology on his lips as he walks off. With just the two of them again, he’s reminded that the man still has a gun and he’s deep in foreign territory. No way he’s getting out.

“Relax.” The other isn’t looking at him as he says it. “It’s late and Yeo’s probably going to ask if you’ll stay the night. I think you should, all things considered. You don’t know what you’ll be going back to.”

No, he doesn’t. But who does he have to blame for this? San keeps his mouth shut, retort dying in the back of his mouth. “You can use this room for the night.” He looks up and kind of regrets that he had. It’s a marvelous room - there’s no denying it - but he feels small. Dirty. It’s a cream, ivory type deal color scheme and he doesn’t want to step inside for fear that even his socks might stain the pristine-looking carpet. He’s reminded again that he’d pissed himself as he looks down, cheeks flaming.

San is well acquainted with shame. Especially when he feels eyes on him in the convenience store or the market. The way people look at the dirty bills in his hands when he goes to pay, or counting change he’s had to rifle through his pockets to get. It’s the same shame he feels now. Outclassed, out of place. But Wooyoung nudges him forward anyway, just the tips of his fingers pushing at his lower back.

“Shower is the door to the left. I’ll get you fresh clothes.”

He’s not happy to be left alone, and at the same time he is. The tension in his shoulders dipped, but not for long. The opulent room is his for the evening and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. So he does as they probably want him to do. He’s acutely aware of his own smell, now that he’s alone. A shower would be nice.

He peels off his clothes and folds them carefully. He’d rather not take up so much space, even if he was given free reign of the room. The bathroom is no different, and a fleeting thought tells him he ought to just do what he wants in this expensive room. It’s not like tis is an everyday occurrence. So he does as he thinks, and uses up most of the body wash and shampoo when he steps into the shower, the floral scents filling the room and settling the nervous churning of his insides. It was different from the rushed, cold showers he was used to, scrubbing his skin raw as quickly as he can before hopping out to return to his regularly scheduled misery.

He watches the dirt and grime from his skin go down the drain. He was a lot less unclean than he had thought. Which isn’t bad. At least he doesn’t smell like piss anymore. When he steps outside the bathroom, he’s greeted by a new face. His hair is dripping wet, obscuring parts of his vision, but he knows this man was not there before. San’s even more aware of the bruises on his skin as the man appraised man. Before he can sputter out a question of who this man is, he speaks.

“Fresh clothes. Wooyoung picked them so I’m not too sure about the style.” His nose wrinkled up with fond distaste, a smile on his lips. He’s the third man tonight that he found to be alarmingly pretty, and why wouldn’t he be? When someone has money, they tend to surround themselves with pretty things. He wonders where he falls in line with that. “They should fit just fine.” There’s a remark about style on his tongue when the other turns and realizes his honey brown hair is styled in a mullet. It stays there, not quite comfortable enough to be released.

The man paused at the door, a frown on his lips as if he’s considering something. But he doesn’t say anything, just gives him a nod and is gone. San thinks he should be worried if even the employees have something to say about him. He dressed quickly, grimacing slightly at a particularly garish cheetah print shirt and dark jeans. It’s not too different from what he was wearing before, but the shirt feels like it’s swallowing him and he had to go two more notches than usual on the belt. He wonders how much weight he’s lost. The clothes he came in are nowhere to be found. They’ve probably thrown them away. He doesn’t blame them if they did.

He nearly headbutts Wooyoung when he peeks out of the room. The other drew back in time to avoid it, but the short rush of fear is still there. What if he thought San was going to run now? There isn’t a reaction to it except an appreciative sound and then, “You look better. Yeosang’s waiting for us.” As if that was all that needed to be said, he gestured for San to go ahead of him.

Directions to the dining room were given sparingly, a “turn here” or “to the right” given out in a velvet tone. It was calming, at first, but with each turn down another hallway he can’t help but feel like he’s walking into the belly of the beast. He still feels out of place, the one thing that doesn’t belong in one of those children’s puzzles. He feels a hand on his shoulder as they make another turn and he realizes they’ve been hunching with each step. Wooyoung gives him a pat on the back as he opens the door to the dining room. It’s what he expects, an opulent room with a long table. Only three places are set, with Yeosang at the far end of the table.

The man is standing, smiling, until he isn’t. He watches as the smile faltered a moment, eye darting over to Wooyoung. He can’t see the look they give each other, but thinks that might not be a good thing. He tries not to think too hard about it as he sits down at a free space. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something is telling him he should figure out why their names sound familiar. Why they know about the deal is his landlord has with some gang.

Those thoughts leave him though at the sight of a meal that is more than instant noodles and whatever else was hiding out in his fridge. It’s not so much that the meal is extravagant - it’s something simple with chicken and rice - but it looks  _ filling _ . Enough that he doesn’t hesitate to scarf it down. It only dawns on him that the sound he can hear in his ears is the scrape of his utensils against his plate. There’s that shame again, slowing him as he sits back in his chair and considers the quarter of his meal left.

“You said you wanted to give me a job.” It’s the only thing to come to mind to move away from his poor manners, but it works. Yeosang looks considerably more concerned about this topic.

“Nothing difficult. You’d be like a personal assistant.” A personal assistant to a murderer; he doesn’t see it as an improvement from his current station. “You’d stay here with us. Primarily for your safety.”

“My safety?”

“Well, you did just take four customers that ended up dead.” Wooyoung’s voice is flat as he states the obvious. He hasn’t looked up from his own plate, the faint clink of his fork sounding as he spears a piece of chicken. “And if your pimp finds out who’s behind it, he might be obligated to answer some questions for our enemies.”

Yeosang piped up immediately after. They’re like a bad example of good cop, bad cop. “It’s not that we wouldn’t be able to protect you, but it is likely that they’ll try something if they know of your involvement.”

San’s not quite paying attention, because it’s clicked. Fallen into place. The opulence, the talk of enemies, how they know so much. He looks up at Wooyoung, takes in his silver hair and the slight uneven angle of his jaw. He  _ had _ heard their names before. He remembers her saying how he should look out for them. Avoid the man with the gun and the one with the kind eyes. Alarms are going off in his head, her voice echoing louder warnings.  _ Don’t get involved in a gang that climbs _ . Not unless you want to be one of their footholds.

The legs of the chair scrape back as he stands abruptly. The panic had to be obvious in his voice. “I-I have to go. I need to leave or h-he’ll wonder where I am.” It’s not a lie, but he spits it out like one. His boss -  _ pimp _ ; he should be honest in that with himself in the moment - is probably aware of some of what has happened.

“Yes, sure.” The words are gentle and he feels his stomach coil.  “We can have a car take you back.” It’s better than walking however far they came. He nodded, not sure about how steady his voice is. He can feel his hands shaking. He’s seen too much, been told too much. Now if he truly refuses, they’d have a reason to get rid of him.

It’s Yeosang that escorts him out. Wooyoung has gone to get the care brought around front. The walk through the halls is silent, but it doesn’t ease his nerves. They’re at the front door when the other pulls out a wallet. There are no words as he hands over a couple bills, crumpling them into San’s hand when he doesn’t take it immediately. “So he doesn’t ask too many questions.” Now he owes them; he’s got to get out.

Someone is returning as he is leaving, evident in the scurry to the door of maids. It’s like something out of one of those really bad crime dramas. The man that steps through is tall - at least taller than San - and once more, unfairly handsome. A smile stretches over his face as he sees Yeosang, but it turns slightly inquisitive at the sight of San. But he says nothing to him. Offers a greeting to Yeosang, blonde hair bobbing slightly as he nods at the smaller man and moves on.

“Car’s out front.” San jumps, not expecting Wooyoung’s voice to come from behind him. Then he’s ushered up the same sleek vehicle he came in. He cast a wary glance to the two men seeing him off, nodding as he closes the door and the car pulls off. The tremors start again and he can hear her voice like she’s right there whispering it in his ear.

_ What have you gotten yourself into, Chickadee? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh yea I introduced some things to San this chapter bc it's kinda vital to the plot, and also feel free to guess what she means to him :)

**Author's Note:**

> pls yell at me in the comments if this was really bad and on my Twitter @morbidsucre have a great day/night


End file.
